Of Brother And Love
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Sherlock has always suffered from Bipolar Disorder but there have been no suicidal tendencies since John started living with him. However, this Sunday, old fears resurface. "Mycroft does care, afterall, John thought to himself as sleep overtook him. " BEWARE of self harm episodes and depressive/suicidal tendencies.


Sherlock felt the knife's edge on his skin, cold against warm, lightning at night, poetry in prose. His veins throbbed with blood, bursting to come out, his mind fluttered as the cold feeling of deathly paleness pressed itself between his long fingers, the blade glinting innocently in the morning light, the steel seemed to be aching, its groan was palpable, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Sherlock had woken up feeling more depressed than usual, his bipolar disorder baring its fangs when John wasn't around. He felt giddy with air, his head slumped on his shoulders like an unnecessary accessory. In some distant corner of his brain, it was 10 am on a Sunday morning and John was out to get some milk. In a more reachable part, there was the adrenaline rush associated with depression, of bleakness and black noise. His own voice drowns his thoughts, he writes to run away from it, the scratching of the quill is like nails on chalkboard, his mind is as war, there is a storm behind his eyes.

_People think they know sorrow, people think it's cathartic. People are philosophical fools, people are contradictory dots, people are bland. Sorrow is living underwater, sorrow is watching the sunlight graze the surface from the womb, sorrow is being unable to lift your hand and break that surface, sorrow is being scared of the sun and yearning for it. Sorrow is drowning and not dying. It's like feeling the first fresh inhale and the salty tang of water in your nose, of feeling the burn of it as you taste it in your mouth, as the gash deepens and plunges into your throat and you feel heavier than lead and lighter than air; you see nothing and hear nothing, just the silent rush of water into your lungs, you hear them fill up like buckets straining under a dam's rush, you feel every ripple and every drop as it levels up. You keep calm, you don't thrash because you have been told that sorrow is salubrious, that it is alleviating and you close your eyes to immerse yourself in the experience. You hope for a white light, you wish for a black one. Your bones melt and push the water towards you from all sides, it's suffocating but you smile because you have been told by the wise ones that it will be liberating, you smile with arrogance in death. _

_It never comes. _  
_Soon you dissolve and nothing but your lungs remain, all fears and wishes soften and waste away and you are nothing but a heart pumping water in and out. And your eyes floating bleak, black noise, nothingness. Just the gentle lapping sounds and the taunts of your despicable self missing your now lost fears._

He gashed his wrist once and a line of red beads mingled in each other, not enough to flow out or create an effect but looking majestic against his pale flesh. Sherlock closed his eyes and admired his handiwork in his head, involuntary tears streaming down his face. He did nothing to wipe them off and sat there, trying to feel the gash, any semblance of pain or feeling to break the constricted knot in his chest, anything. His phone beeped, the sound jolting him out of his thoughts, popping stars behind his eyes. He opened them a little and extended his uninjured hand to the Blackberry, white bony fingers closing around it as the message flashed,

**Don't - MH**

Sherlock gaped at the message for a minute and ran his thumb over the cut, the blood velvet-like under his skin, enticing. More, more, more, his mind hummed, egging him on.

**Don't, Sherlock, please. - MH**

Another message, accompanied by the sound of a car stopping right outside 221B. Sherlock sat there, doing nothing, listening to the door opening and closing after exactly 7 seconds. Hurried footsteps rang across the stairs but the door opened with a calm creak. Faux calmness, Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft came inside Sherlock's room, his eyes scanning everything as if out of habit and then resting on Sherlock. It wasn't the Mycroft Holmes who ran the British government, it was the brother who now watched his sibling in pain, concern clouding the usually cold eyes, trying to mask his emotions, failing hopelessly. Mycroft walked upto Sherlock, taking his wrist in his hand and deciding that the cut was, in fact, nothing to worry about. Sherlock didn't flinch at the touch. He didn't draw his hand back but looked at Mycroft with his cool grey eyes, surveying and drinking in his brother's presence.

Mycroft's hand freed itself from his trouser pocket and gently scratched Sherlock's head, brushing his morning hair off his face. He walked closer and Sherlock rested his head on his side, aware that he was crying and for once, not caring what his brother thought of him. Mycroft held his brother in his arms, letting the bloodied wrist drag across his expensive tailored suit as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him.

"I look like a fool, don't I, Mycroft?" Sherlock mumbled between sobs. In that moment, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective the world has ever seen, the arrogant walking brain that insulted every Yarder and solved cases in a breeze. He was a 10 year old boy who had been teased mercilessly by his peers for being a "queer" and was rocked to sleep by his older brother. "Shush," Mycroft whispered in his ears, kissing his forehead gently.

It had been the first episode in years, John had ensured that Sherlock was always engaged and happy. Even without a case, Sherlock never even thought about attempting anything of the sort but today had been different. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock hadn't had a case for a week, maybe it was the conspicuous absence of John from the house or maybe it was the after-effects of a nightmare. Perhaps, it was all three combined. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything. Sherlock's breathing calmed down after a while but he didn't loosen his grip. Mycroft didn't mind it.

They heard gentle footsteps on the stairs and some muttering as John entered the flat. "Sherlock, I saw Mycroft's car outsi-" he saw the two brothers and stopped talking. Sherlock had obviously heard him but hadn't moved. John dropped his bags on the floor and walked upto them, his eyes immediately wandering over to the wrist as he looked up at Mycroft questioningly. Mycroft merely shrugged and gently rubbed Sherlock's shoulders. "I'll leave you in the very capable hands of Dr. Watson now, Sherlock," and without another word, he strode out of the flat.

The moment the door closed, John had his arms around Sherlock and began preparing to clean the gash . Sherlock sat with his eyes closed and his head nestled perfectly in John's chest as the doctor worked silently. He had always known that the terrible mood swings and the silent days couldn't just be just boredom. Bipolar Syndrome he had suspected but had never really had the heart to talk to Sherlock about it.

"Do you want some tea, Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, planting a small kiss on Sherlock's head, John's heart hurt at watching Sherlock in pain. It made him angry at everything and he wanted nothing but to hold him close and take all the pain away. Would Sherlock brush these sentiments off as lame if he knew what John was thinking? Or would he be touched? John wanted to sit inside his head and clean it, wipe the angry red blots away.  
"No, I want you. Just you," came a low voice, mirroring his thoughts.  
"You already have me, love. Come, let's get you to bed. I could do with some more sleep too."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes found himself wrapped securely in a certain John Watson's arms, listening to a story John was reciting, being kissed away to sleep. And all he dreamt of warm lips on his own and the smell of home.  
_Mycroft does care, afterall,_ John thought to himself as sleep overtook him.


End file.
